Clash
by QuietCacophony
Summary: "The Braginsky family - they are everything she is against, the epitome of living scum on earth, the tyrants. They are the chains that have bound their people for so long, the very symbols of oppression." Elizaveta Hedérváry is their next victim, a victim thrown to the wolves, but a victim willing to fight. Medieval-ish AU. Two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

She stares at the closed doors with eyes that burn with intensity, the sword nestled in her tight grip. She knows she's allowed to sit down; a chair with uneven legs sits patiently behind her, but she looked down her nose on it the moment she had laid eyes on it, refusing to take it as a seat.

The sand timer to her right ticks down slowly, releasing the beige grains in a thin, broken trickle. There's eight seconds left...seven...six...

She wonders what her friends would say if they were beside her now. That morning, Roderich had simply looked at her, eyes crinkled with sorrow and despair, because "I'm sorry" were empty words and they were both aware of that. Instead he embraced her before bidding goodbye, and now, as if the warmth if that memory is ruthlessly stripped from her grasp, she feels that eerie cold.

Gilbert had placed his hands on her shoulders firmly and looked her straight in the eyes, his own ablaze with fury and hatred. "You're strong, Elizaveta. You can do it - show the bastard what you're made of, don't let him have his way." The words were frantic and rushed, but only because the guards were by then gripping her arms and pulling her away, and the only thing that registered in her mind before the door slammed in between her and Gilbert was that it was the first time in a long time that he used her full first name.

Three...two...

She hears a horrible, creaking sound - it drives deep into her skull, pressing harder with each millisecond and she realizes that the doors are being pulled open. Pale light cuts through the open space and she almost staggers back as it stabs her eyes, which had already been accustomed to the dim of whatever the previous room was. Black spots dapple her vision and she wonders if this had been planned.

One.

The doors close again; this time the grating screech of it against the floor is punctuated by a deafening bang not unlike a cannon. The candles set on the chandeliers rattle in their places and the strange, faintly white liquid on the goblets are disturbed from their previous stagnation. But the three people across the room didn't seem to mind.

The Braginsky family - they are everything she is against, the epitome of living scum on earth, the tyrants. They are the chains that have bound their people for so long, the very symbols of oppression - the only people Elizaveta has been raised to loathe with her whole heart. Ivan sits upon the largest throne, gloved fingers steepled to support his chin, a leg swung over the other. It's almost eerily child-like. Yekaterina is perched on the smaller throne beside him, hands folded on her lap timidly, and she casts her eyes down, away from Elizaveta's burning glare, as if she was almost ashamed.

And Natalya. Natalya, who truly did serve no more purpose in Elizaveta's eyes other than as the girl who is about to act upon her orders to kill her. Natalya, who is a delicate white rose rendered untouchable by the venomous thorns that surround her stem. She stands in the shadow of the space between her older siblings' thrones as if wary of the tinted light that filters through the blue and indigo stained glass and onto the stone floor.

Upon a whisper from her brother from behind a glove, she makes her way down the three stone steps, now merely within a ten foot distance from Elizaveta. She wears no armor, but a dark blue dress and a bow in her hair, as if mocking Elizaveta - rich and beautiful and deadly, that is what she is, compared to the Hungarian girl who is dressed in clothes made for a man.

"Elizaveta Hedérváry," Ivan muses from his throne, untangling his fingers to gesture for her to come closer. Natalya steps back as the girl makes her way towards him, cautious and strong, and stops at the bottommost step.

Elizaveta bows, gritting her teeth at the act...of bowing for this...this monster, who is far more unworthy of respect than the lowest vermin was. Then she straightened herself, not looking into the piercing eyes of the man in front of her by rather at the floor by him, anywhere - anywhere but the eyes.

He leans back into the cushions of his chair, dark violet velvet - how dare he relax when he is sending to people to fight before him, for his own entertainment, and one of them his sister, nonetheless, she thinks. "Today, there won't be any killing...just warm up a little, entertain me for an hour or so." He waves at her dismissively, to take her place opposite Natalya but within three feet of her opponent. And the second she takes on a fiercer stance, his voice rings through the empty room.

"Begin."

She barely has time to react as Natalya lunges at her, sword cutting a straight line through the air and narrowly missing her right side. Blood pounds thickly in Elizaveta's ears - technically, Ivan hadn't said he didn't want to see blood. She sidesteps, throwing a couple of slashes that her opponent dodges fluidly, and her mind reels in frustration and anger.

She'd been in sword fights before, more than she can actually count, but hardly one of her previous opponents had a goal to actually drive their weapons deep into her torso. Maybe not today, but tomorrow, or the day after that, she would be finding a sword lodged into her stomach. Dread made its way up her throat in the form of bile, creeping up like tiny fingers, and she forced herself to concentrate on not getting hacked at.

Natalya thrusts again, more forcefully this time, and continues to repeat the action, moving a few steps forward with every thrust. Left, right, left, right, left, le-

Elizaveta, who had been rendered helpless and forced to do nothing but dodge, felt the blood drain from her face as the cool metal of her enemy's blade brush her side - not enough to leave a scratch of any kind, but enough to remind her that it would leave so much more in the near future. She inhales sharply and lunges forward, attempting to deliver a slash at the lithe girl.

They dance, steps quick and precise, back and forth and twirling and slashing; the still wind in the room howling in their ears, hair flying in tangled frenzy of platinum and russet. They dance, among kaleidoscopic patterns of varying shades of blue and indigo, to the melodious clash of swords and the beat of their steps, fueled with the adrenaline that practically replaces their blood.

There is hardly time for banter - this Elizaveta remembers as the other's sword is brought down upon her own with a loud clang. They are face to face, blades crossed in between them. She grits her teeth, refusing to give in to the immense pressure and to stagger back. Natalya's eyes bore into hers, steely and dark, her delicate lips twisted into a sneer of strange glee and hate. To stagger back would mean giving in; giving in meant defeat; defeat meant to go against everything she believed in.

No.

She will not lose.

She will not lose.

"Don't let him have his way," Elizaveta whispers, echoing Gilbert's words. She thinks of what she had back home, what she had waiting for her - him, and Roderich, even Vash and Elise and Ludwig, and her family, and the rest of her life. "Show him what you're made of."

Adrenaline surges through her veins with a sudden rush. A great, guttural noise tears from her chest as she made a final lunge forward, blade shrieking as it slid gratingly against Natalya's. The next thing she knows she is standing over the other girl, sword pointed at her chest.

The room falls silent.

Elizaveta's blood pounds in her ears, drowning out the sound of her own labored breathing and her hand trembles slightly. Natalya props herself up on her elbows, eyes narrowed with venomous contempt through the frazzled locks that fell into her flushed face. A gash, possibly made in the last few seconds of the fight, tore through her right sleeve and the ribbon around her waist.  
Somewhere in the back of her mind the Magyar wonders if she will wake up alive tomorrow, but for now the thought is pushed away by the swell of relief.

A sharp spattering of unfamiliar noise resonates through the thickened air, and she whips around to find Ivan Braginsky staring at her with amusement akin to a young child's, and it takes her hazy mind two seconds to register that the sound is actually applause.

He gestures for her to come forward, and she does, stopping at the first step again. "Well," he began, leaning forward. "That was, to say the least...the most entertaining performance yet."

"Thank you," she says curtly - performance, he had called it, as if it were also a game through her own eyes. Yekaterina gives her a small nod and an appraising smile from beneath the rim of her glass, but she couldn't care less.

She feels the hair on her nape and arms prickle as Natalya's presence approaches her. "Tomorrow, Hedérváry; tomorrow," she hisses almost inaudibly as she makes her way through the doors.


	2. Chapter 2

When the doors part, the first feeling that registers in her mind is complete and utter dread. It creeps down her skin, clammy and jittery, clogging her throat and almost destroying whatever hope was left in her.

Because at the doors stand Emma, and despite the dark shadows cast upon her Elizaveta knows it is her. Emma, who she had never seen it heard from again since the day Ivan had her and her brother captured all those years ago. Emma, who was no longer the optimistic, energetic teen she knew.

Elizaveta stares in horror at the figure at the doors, eyes absorbing the thin, thin body and the multiple scars that laced around it, some fresh and some faint and some new; her mind hesitant to comprehend what has now become of her old friend. She finds herself wishing that Belle had died long ago, had been spared of all torture she had been through; however, death is the one luxury that Ivan refuses to give a person.

Emma makes her way past Elizaveta in the center of the room, sword occasionally scraping the rough flagstone, walking towards the thrones and bowing lowly at the bottommost step. A faint smile twists the tyrant's lips and he utters a few indiscernible words, and Belle nods curtly, sharply, before coming in front of Elizaveta in the same position that Natalya had assumed the day before.

She stands stiffly, sword in hand and awaiting Ivan's signal; her eyes are not what she had expected. They are not void of emotion; there is fear, there is sadness, there is regret and exhaustion and hesitance.

But there is no recognition in her weary eyes.

Nothing to assure Elizaveta that she is being remembered by her long-lost friend.

"_It's me. Elizaveta. Remember?_"

The words bubble at the tip of her tongue, waning to burst forth from her mouth but she holds herself, not even daring to look at the damaged girl with an expression of dismay as so not to give away anything. Two pairs of eyes stare her down evenly from the far side of the room - though one refuses to do so - as if awaiting something from her.

But she refuses to satisfy anyone but herself.

"Begin."

She almost steps backward, her right foot jerking only the slightest impulsively, her hand almost drawing back. But nothing comes immediately - not the swish of metal, not footsteps on stone, not a sound. Her opponent remains in her place and relief washes over her suddenly, allowing herself just the slightest bit of hope for-

A strange, strangled cry rips out as Emma lunges forward, sword gleaming a pale blue from the colored windows, and manages to open a gash on Elizaveta's left upper arm in the latter's delayed haste to dodge.

The sharp pain burns her flesh, deep and fresh; a crimson smile the dribbles steadily. The fiery stinging is all she needs to know that the girl before her now has a mind that is not her own, completely damaged and corrupted over long, tortured years; a reminder that personal feelings had no place in the Braginskys' cold, cold throne room, this whole wretched place and everything in it. They knew nothing of feelings.

So she lunges back.

Blades shriek, meeting, colliding between them; no matter how thin she looked, she had grown stronger. The blonde girl refuses to look her in the eye from more than a fleeting second; her only motive is to fight as much as Ivan wants her to. The sound of clashes drown out rapid footsteps on the uneven floor; Elizaveta's boots and Emma's worn shoes; the tinkle of glass and hushed, amused murmurs. It's the same old things; block, strike, dodge, to simply stay alive as their one motivation.

The background melts into a haze of blue and gray and gold as they spin, greeting each other with a collision of metal, both aiming for any entrance.

Neither is sure how long they have been going at it - half an hour, a quarter, a few minutes? The energy she has exerted had forced more blood from the cut in her upper arm, beginning to run down the laceration and staining her green shirt a darkened reddish-brown.

Her lungs and eyes burn, limbs aching, but she grits her teeth - "_Emma, what have they done to you?_" - neither of them will get out of this unscathed and Ivan will make sure of that.

Their blades meet in the middle, with her seemingly having the upper hand; she is taller, even if for a mere few centimeters she manages to press her own sword hard down onto Emma's. "_I don't want to hurt you._" She tries to deliver the message, through her eyes, anything, but she is deprived of such as the shorter girl finds interest in the distorted reflections on metal.

"You don't have to do this," Elizaveta whispers, voice barely inaudible; the words make their way from her mouth before she can control them and she feels her resistance slipping and the pressure she applies eventually lessens, but not by much.

They remain motionless, breathing heavily and caked in dirt and sweat and feeling the weight of Ivan's sharpening stare grow cold upon their backs.

"Remember me, Emma, please."

Damn it, all of it, Ivan and his sisters to hell. One look at Belle's body, the bones sharply protruding in her collarbone and knees, and, very likely her ribs, was only one of the many exhibits of ruthlessness they have set. This is not the girl she had used to be friends with, not the girl she had last seen giggling with boys under her brother's warning gaze, not the girl who made chocolate and waffles and planted bright tulips in her garden.

Fear swells dangerously in Elizaveta's chest as she thinks of the possibility of this girl being beyond all repair.

"_No!_"

Elizaveta's sword is wrenched from her grasp as it flies across the room, to her right, gleaming blue and white in the colored light as it arcs, spinning, and she only sees it break in two on the jagged stone with a deafening clatter before she is aware of Emma staggering to recover from her sudden pitch forward.

Her chest heaves with the difficulty to take in the biting air and her mind reels with an attempt to register that had happened within two seconds.

Blood pounds in their ears, black spots spattering their vision as they stand in their places, trembling and panting. The Hungarian girl finds her throat dry, making breathing even more painful. She is powerless, she is weaponless, she may as well be helpless. The girl across her stares as her, brows furrowed upwards with uneasiness and fear. Both hands are on the worn hilt of her sword; she points it straight at Elizaveta's middle but the blade is shaking and so is her breathing and she is sure Natalya is watching with disdain in her frosty eyes.

The battered girl chances a glance behind her, as if asking Ivan for an order; and he with amusement in his eyes he drawls, "A duel where only one is unarmed is unfair."

Emma's weapon is released with a metallic clatter, automatically; as if she was expecting it - this Elizaveta confirms as the other produces a clean, small roll of bandages from her pocket and is followed by another one, which is thrown gently to her. She shoots the blonde a look of pure confusion, which melts the moment Emma rips off the end and begins to wind it around her hands.

She feels blood drain from her face slightly as she looks down at the roll in her hands, lips tightening down to a grim line.

Ivan truly won't let them stop there, will he?

As soon as they finished wrapping their hands, Emma makes a lunge for her; Elizaveta catches this and clamps down on her wrist, only inches away from her face. Emma hisses through gritted teeth, drawing back her other arm and swiftly delivering a hit to the Hungarian's cheek.

The pain is solid and instantaneous; she feels a sickening, swelling jolt on the right side of her cheek but it does nothing but pump more adrenaline through her veins. Instinctively she retaliates with a flurry of punches. A loud crack resonates through the room, bouncing off the walls as she manages to land a hit on the other's jaw.

Blood dribbles down the side of Emma's chin and streaks down her neck from the cut on her lip. Her jaw protrudes forward in anger; she makes a move to wipe the scarlet away but decides against it, opting for a sudden careen forward.

She hits the side of Elizaveta's face again, this time a bit higher, and manages to give her a black eye. The Hungarian punches back blindly, her left eye now swollen shut and gradually darkening from broken veins. A part of her wants to damn all past feelings, yet her attachment to the old, more familiar version of the girl in front of her stops her completely.

But when Emma catches her arm and twists painfully, almost sending her stumbling, she damns the voice to hell, mind racing with the multitude of feelings toward this girl and the thought not to break any bones lest she become an easy target tomorrow.

She feels herself being jolted to the right, Emma's fingers embossing white grips on her arm, and feels air escape her body as the girl delivers a swift, solid blow to her stomach.

A groan escapes her lips as she staggers backwards, out of the Belgian's grip, and lands on the jagged stone with a thud. Pain shoots up her spine for a moment and she glances up at Emma.

It was over far too quickly.

Pain throbs and hums through every inch of her skin, her cuts stinging in the cold air. The general numbness of some begins to subside slowly, drawing in the onslaught of pain that has been withheld for a few seconds at the least. She doesn't want to fight back anymore.

Not because she is tired, not because she is willing to give up, not because she is purposely giving Emma the victory of today.

But because she wants to speak.

It is the strangest reason she has ever come up with; a reason that hovers around the back of her mind insistently, constantly, and she knows she has to let it out.

"Emma..." Her voice is a little rougher than usual, she doesn't notice the immense dryness of her throat until now. "Do you remember me?"

Pupils staring down at her dilate in fear. Not a word escapes Emma, not a sound; the Braginskys surely will not ignore this.

"Do you remember...remember what we were little?" And she doesn't even know what she is doing, what she will speak of, and she refuses to think if the consequences for it. "When I taught you how to fight with the wooden swords? You were...we were ten that time, and you almost fell into the river and-and Abel didn't let you play with me the next day.

"Remember when we used to team up against Gilbert? And Elise's tea and cakes that...that we ate in her garden...Vash didn't let Gilbert join us too..."

Elizaveta closes her eyes, and they burn behind her closed lids. She cannot manage to look up now; for now she will rest her eyes, but push her voice and energy to speak until it ceases to work. Emma has gone still, unmoving and unsure if what to do.

"That time when we only fought for fun and not our lives. When we would come home with a bruise...a bruise or two...and smiles - even though years later you stopped fighting that much.

"B-but you still were our friend, always. Those tulips...that grew in your garden...remember? You never mixed the colors. Yellow ones grew by the door, the red - the red lines the path and the others...others were just in other places..."

She tilts her head upwards, squinting through the narrow slit of her swollen eye, to see Belle's face bowed low, hiding behind a limp curtain of dirtied hair. Her heart twisted.

"Elise took care of them."

Her voice was softer now, more distant.

"They're still there...there...I'm sure. A few have-wilted but it's right...all right...it rains a lot and they're still okay." She slows down considerably. "Not as bright as you...I..when you were tending them...

"Please, Emma."

The silence that follows her last whisper is laid down upon the whole room, smothering everything like a thick blanket that carried every word and plea left unsaid. If those words brought her punishment, then so be it.

It feels like an hour before she is startled by a thump in front of her. Her eyes blink open, hazily, slowly, to see the other squeeze her hand lightly before ripping a long strip of bandage and gently, tenderly, wrapping around the cut on her upper arm, whose steady flow of crimson has been reduced to a thin trickle.

Elizaveta can only stare at the white, and then the red that bleeds through it faintly like blobs of watercolor. The tightness of the bonds feels foreign, her arm feels heavy and restrained, but she doesn't speak a word. The silence between them is enough.

Emma finishes with a curt, simple nod at her bandaged arm and without missing a beat, helps Elizaveta stand up again.

They exit the room without being dismissed, though not unaware of Ivan's piercing gaze on their backs.

* * *

_Aaaand done! There we go. I'm not continuing this, really, at least not in the near future. This was originally a commission for KenjiSama on deviantART, which was originally a Hungary x Belgium. But due to my intense stupidity and thickness I misread it as Belarus and not Belgium, which resulted in the previous chapter._

_This one, this chapter, is one I wrote as a "sequel" to correct my mistake._

_Nevertheless, I hope you liked it!_


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